by Amano, Mia
Wild pleasure runs through me. I exhale, feeling tension leave my body as Kaito holds for a moment, raining tender kisses down the side of my face.
Pushing a stray tendril of hair away from my eyes, he kisses me one last time then withdraws.
I sigh, feeling warm and content with the afterglow of ecstasy. My legs are like jelly. Kaito moves beside me, entangling his long legs with mine.
“I tried to be a gentleman for once, Adele.” His breath is soft and warm, featherlike against my ear. “But I don’t have it in me.”
“What are you talking about?” I murmur, as he snakes an arm around my shoulders. I lean into his broad, warm chest, breathing in his complex, masculine scent. I close my eyes and start to fade as sleep pulls me in, and I hear nothing but the sound of our breathing and the faint, steady beat of Kaito’s heart.
Kaito
She’s still asleep. I have no idea what time it is, but the sun’s starting to come up. The clear sky is fading to pink through the gap in the curtains.
What the fuck were you thinking?
So much for changing my ways. Patience was never my strong point. In the early days, the word ‘reckless’ was used to describe me. Didn’t matter. It made me good at my job. Unpredictable kills in public places. Audacious, shocking. Kuroda used it to their advantage. Secretly, Ishida-san loved it.
I always did it my way, and nobody ever complained.
About last night. I get a bit of booze in me, and I can’t keep my dick in my pants. I can’t wait until Adele’s finished with her hostess gig. This is going to complicate things. She doesn’t want to be bought, but I can’t let her go.
Not when she tastes like sweet honey and the sex is better than anything I’ve had before.
Just pure, honest, joyful fucking. No pretensions.
I needed this. I didn’t know how badly until now.
I’m thinking of buying out her hostess contract. She’d kill me for that.
I glance at her face. Asleep, awake, it doesn’t matter. She’s fucking beautiful.
I untangle myself from her arms, taking care not to wake her. My pants and belt are scattered on the floor. I slip them on, looking around for my shirt.
It must be in the living room. There’s probably a trail of clothes thrown around out there. I pad out of the room on silent, bare feet. Adele’s place is small, but decent. There’s a massive flatscreen TV in the living room and a Playstation on the floor. A vintage looking Bruce Lee poster hangs on the wall, along with a framed, autographed picture of Uma Thurman in her Kill Bill outfit.
Huh. I wouldn’t have picked Adele for a fan. Does someone else live here?
My black shirt is a crumpled mess on the floor. I pick it up. A door creaks, followed by soft footsteps. Shirt in hand, I freeze.
There’s a guy staring at me. He’s wearing a faded black t-shirt and pajama pants. His dark, curly hair is a wild mess around his face.
“Um, hello?” His gaze flicks down to my chest and arms, his eyes becoming wider and wider. I know he’s taking in the intricate tattoos that run the length of my arms, covering my shoulders and my entire back, curving over the top part of my chest.
They are very characteristic tattoos.
There are vividly coloured cherry blossoms, swirling koi and twisting dragons. A demonic hannya mask stares out from my back.
I grunt and shrug on my wrinkled shirt. “Who are you?” I’m not in the mood for politeness.
The stranger blinks. “I live here.”
Irritated, I start to fasten buttons. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving.” Adele didn’t tell me she lived with someone else.
“Er, is Adele…”
“She’s asleep.” My shoes and socks are strewn around the doorway. “Don’t wake her.” I retrieve them and sit down on the sofa, pulling on the black leather shoes. The silence hangs between us, thick and awkward.
Adele’s housemate, or whatever he is, can’t stop staring at me. “Look,” I sigh, “I’m not going to cause any trouble. I’m out of here.”
He’s still looking at me as if I’m an alien, or I’ve grown two heads. “Adele’s never brought anyone home before,” he murmurs. “Are you going to call her?” He sounds defensive now, almost protective.
“None of your business,” I snap. The sake I drank last night has left me a parting gift in the form of a dull, throbbing headache. Apparently, even the most expensive booze can cause hangovers. “What are you, her fucking chaperone?”
The guy bristles, forgetting his wide-eyed fascination with my ink. “I”m her friend. So what if I’m looking out for her?”
“Seems to me she’s more than capable of looking after herself.”
“You’re probably right.” His eyes dart to the floor, where Adele’s purple dress is crumpled in a heap. He looks at me again, an expression of distaste crossing his face. “So, Adele’s boyfriend or whatever you are, I would usually tell you to get the fuck out of my apartment right now, but you look way too scary for that. So I’ll let you carry on. In your own time, man.”
I finish tying my laces and stand, raising an eyebrow at the guy. Another outspoken asshole. I don’t know if he’s being rude, sarcastic or just plain dumb.
“Don’t let the tatts fool you. I’m nicer than I look.” I bare my teeth. “I’ll see you next time, kid.” I can tell that calling him ‘kid’ pisses him off. The outrage is written all over his face. But that’s what he is, caught somewhere in between boy and man. I’ve seen his type before. “Nice poster, by the way.”
“Um, thanks.” Now he’s confused. I’m not quite sure which one I’m referring to either.
I take care not to slam the door on my way out.
CHAPTER FIVE
Adele
When I wake up, he’s gone. I stretch and thrown on an old, oversized t-shirt. I close my eyes and remember the sensation of being held in Kaito’s arms. I should be annoyed that he’s disappeared without waking me. It’s what people do after a one night stand.
But when I remember last night, I just can’t bring myself to be angry with him.
I get the feeling he never intended to go that far.
And now he’s taken off, without a trace. I don’t even have his number. I’m not worried. I’m working at Black Rose tonight.
Kaito will be there. I have no doubts about that.
As I reach the kitchen I freeze. “Dio, what the hell are you doing here?” He’s sitting on the couch with the remote in hand, flicking through TV channels and slurping a half-empty mug of coffee. Despite my motherly nagging, Dio’s never been big on breakfast. “I thought you’d be back at the end of the week.”
“Had to come home early.” He runs a hand through his wild black hair. It crowns his head like a large, unruly cloud. “Some crazy work orders coming through. Sorry for interrupting your, um, little tryst.” Dio raises an eyebrow. I don’t like the tone of his voice.
“Hang on.” I perch on the bar stool beside him. “What’s the problem, Dio?” I know when the man’s upset. He’s been the same since grade school. Trying to put on a polite face, but seething inside. To me, who’s known him all these years, it’s plainly obvious.
“Oh, nothing really, just that I wake up to find some scary-ass motherfucker getting dressed in my living room.” Dio takes a long, slurping sip from his mug. “Where did you find that one, Adele? He looks like an extra from a Takashi Miike movie.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Dio? Takashi what?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice his tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” I blink in surprise. I’d been drunk. I remember our bodies pressing against each other, the warmth, the feeling of smooth skin and lean muscle under my fingers. But the lights had been out, and we’d moved together in the darkness. I’d been in sensory overload.
“How could you not notice, Adi?” Dio pins me with a baleful stare. “Don’t tell me you were so wasted you can’t remember the guy’s ink.”
“It was kind of dar
k,” I protest, on the defensive. “What’s the big deal anyway? Everyone has tattoos these days.”
“Not like his. They’re spectacular.” Dio looks at me long and hard, before a small, cracked laugh escapes him. “Oh, Adi. Trust you to bring a gangster into our house and not know about it. And now he knows where we live.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Though I can see how you were tempted. The man is damn fine.”
I cross my arms in mock annoyance. “Don’t you go checking out my property, Dio. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t swing that way.” It’s no secret that Dio prefers the male variety. “Besides, he’s not your type.”
“Not my usual, no. I don’t do tall, dark and snarky, and I don’t do dangerous. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a beautiful man.”
“I don’t know what he said to you this morning, but Kaito’s not as bad as you think.” I grab the remote from Dio’s hand and start flicking through channels. Breakfast TV leaves a lot to be desired. “Whatever he used to be caught up in, he doesn’t do that anymore.”
“Are you sure? These guys are loyal for life, Adele. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see that guy. And you shouldn’t bring him around here again.” Dio finishes the rest of his coffee and stretches. “You really didn’t notice his tattoos?”
“I told you, it was dark. Why do you keep going on about them?” I finally settle on a channel; MTV. They’re playing some old 90s stuff. It’s all bling and black and white and slow motion. I put the volume on mute. Dio stands, a yawn escaping his lips. Then he turns to face me, his dark eyes large and intense.
“Ya. Ku. Za.” He mouths the syllables. “That’s what the tatts tell me. He’s marked for life. I’ve seen that shit on the movies.”
I roll my eyes. “You learn everything from the movies, Dio. Real life is different. You’ve watched too much Kill Bill.” I nod at the poster, his prized possession, autographed by Uma Thurmann herself. She stares back at us, the long, menacing Japanese sword raised above her head. She looks so fierce, clad in tight yellow and black with those cool Onizuka Tiger sneakers. Dio bought that poster off Ebay for some ridiculous sum.
“Maybe.” He sounds skeptical. “You just keep your wits about you with that one. I bet the marks on that nicely chiseled body of his don’t come without history.”
“Whatever.”
“And Adi?” Dio takes the remote back off me and turns up the volume as the next clip comes on. California Love. Tupac. That intro is damn catchy.
“What?”
“Next time you have sex, keep the lights on.”
“Idiot.” I throw a cushion at Dio as he retreats.
Kaito
As I drive across town, I reach for my shades. The LA sun is harsh; I’ve never gotten used to it. In my old job, I was a creature of the night. The shadows are kinder to people like me. But money laundering is different. It’s best done in broad daylight. A crooked accountant once told me that if you want to appear legit, it’s best to carry on right under their noses, as if you’ve got nothing to hide.
Crooked accountant. I snort in amusement. That’s what I’ve become. It’s a step up from what I was, I suppose.
My head is pounding. I need aspirin and a tall cup of strong, black coffee.
I roll down the window and light a cigarette, the next best thing. I’ve been trying to give up the smokes, because Adele doesn’t like it. But right now, I need something.
My mood’s gone to shit. I wanted to hang around, spend the morning with Adele, but when that guy, the Tarantino otaku housemate, appeared, I took off.
He was trying to act cool, but my appearance had him spooked. He knew what I was. I could tell by the look in his eyes.
Of course, he’s going to talk to Adele about it. That might complicate things.
My phone rings. I toss the cigarette and answer with my free hand. It’s Masa.
“Aniki, we need to speak. In person.” His tone of voice is all business.
“Problem?” The dull ache in the back of my head spreads, becomes a little sharper. I’m instantly on edge.
“There’s a request. For your expertise.”
“Yeah?” I keep my voice neutral. No need to let Masa know I’m surprised. Disappointed, even. This sounds like a job for the old me. I figured it would be coming, sooner or later, but I always secretly hoped the Kuroda bosses might forget about me.
Wishful thinking. This morning is turning out to be a pain in the ass.
Mendokusai. A fucking pain in the ass.
“Can you meet me in an hour? I’ll text you an address. I’ll be on the top floor.”
“I’ll be there.” When the family calls, you show up. There’s no other option.
The address lights up on my phone. I recognize it. A driving range in Koreatown. Also owned by Kuroda. I do the accounts for that place as well. I raise an eyebrow. Masa’s into golf now, is he?
I pull into the parking lot of a drugstore, and find myself a pack of aspirin and a large, black coffee from a nearby donut shop. I feel a sudden stab of sympathy for hostesses around the world who have to drink to make a living.
Hangovers are no joke. I’m never drinking two thousand dollar sake again.
As I drive across town, the coffee does it’s magic, and I start to feel normal again. A strange feeling works its way into my gut, almost like I’m nervous.
Hell, I am fucking nervous. That’s not like me at all.
For the last three years, I’ve been a nobody, living a life that’s almost normal. I’ve escaped to this strange country where anything goes and everything is larger than life. I’ve had no trouble blending in. I don’t stand out here.
Now, there seems to be a request for my services.
My thoughts drift to Adele, the feeling of her silken skin under my rough, unworthy hands. Her curves, the warmth of her body. Her subtle vanilla scent, driving me crazy. I shouldn’t have gone back to her apartment. Should have kept my dick in my pants. But with that woman, my self control goes out the window.
There’s never been a woman who’s had a such a hold on me.
I realize I haven’t even given her my number. That’s probably for the best. Her lanky otaku friend back there is probably telling her all about our little run in. He’s probably made some assumptions of his own, and he’s probably right.
I run a hand through my hair and don a pair of shades as I pull into the parking lot of the Green Avenue driving range. The rearview mirror tells me I look presentable. The last thing I want to do is look like I’ve had a rough night.
The driving range is a curved building three stories high. It’s surrounded by tall nets. I make my way to the top floor. Masa’s standing in the centre slot, accompanied by four guys in suits. He’s wearing shorts and a polo shirt. He looks casual, relaxed. I stand at the back for a while, watching. His back is to me. They don’t notice me at first.
Masa takes a swing, and the ball flies out, landing at the two hundred and fifty yard mark.
I take a moment to observe.
I’m fascinated at how he’s changed. He grew up like me, the son of a prostitute. We had half a childhood between us. As a young man, he had a brittle temper. He was impulsive, unsure of himself, with a bit of a cruel streak.
I don’t blame him. Those of us who grew up in that place are all unstable, in our own little ways. A house full of prostitutes wasn’t a place for kids to grow up.
On the rare occasions that our mothers would spend time with us, nurture us, act normal, we’d soak it up like desert plants in a summer storm. We were staved of affection. The hard men, the pimps and pushers who passed through would sometimes find a smile, acting like friendly uncles. They’d slip us thousand yen notes and tell us to go buy candy. They could pat us on the head with an affectionate grin then go out into the street and stab a man in cold blood without thinking twice.
As I got older, I saw through the facade, as the background noise of drugs, fucking and violence became harder and harder to ignore. It’s the undertow
we’ve been fighting against our entire lives.
The undertow almost sucked Masa in and didn’t give him back.
I remember finding him one night, in the deep of winter, passed out on a bench in Ikebukuro West Gate Park. He was spaced out, his pupils tiny black pinpricks under the streetlights.
I cursed and took him home, locking him in a room until the drugs were out of his system and he’d gone through withdrawal.
He’d screamed and begged, banging on the door, crying, pleading. I eventually let him out to wash off the sweat and piss and vomit. He was starving. I fed him, clothed him, changed his fucking sheets. I warned him I would shoot him if he left the house.
I watched over him for a week, never leaving the apartment. Some of the junior Kuroda guys came and went at my request, bringing us food and cigarettes.
Slowly, the old Masa came back.
I told him I would kill him if he went back to that shit again. I was dead serious. Better to die a quick death than fade away as a junkie.
As far as I know, Masa never touched the gear again. He joined the Kuroda-kai and hasn’t looked back.
I blink, jolted back into the present as Masa turns around. His eyes go wide. I nod and he walks over to me, waving his men away. They’re big, intimidating guys, all Japanese, staring at me with hard, suspicious eyes.
Masa reaches my side. No bow this time, but he looks apologetic. He speaks in Japanese. “Sorry for the short notice. The order came from Tokyo. Literally.” He utters the last word dryly. I don’t know what he means by that. “Thanks for coming.”
I nod, not saying a word. Masa’s left eye twitches. It’s an old tic he’s never been able to shake. It’s worse when he’s uneasy. He gestures towards the range. Balls fly out across the green, some striking the net at the far end. On the floors below us, golfers are practicing their swings.
“I’ve been working on my game. You play?”